Tsimaras Tzanatos, Suspense

A man and a woman are suffocating, trapped in a weird dollhouse. They are trying to remember, to go back to the beginning of the story amidst distorted distant sounds and echoes. They confess, disguise themselves, try to dress fear in the right words. In the strange world of Suspense, the characters try to fit in their existence and withstand the weight of a violent reality.

W: (To the audience) The pain- even when vague- it hurts. Same, always. It looks the same. This is why there are no gradations of pain. Pain has not been measured. Ever. Even if you consider it historically. Never. Therefore… Even if one wanted. To do it. Hypothetically speaking. How would he go about it? Would he place all the pains in order? Arrange them? Place one pain next to the other? (She smirks) And how would he measure them? By the yardstick? Would he measure their height? Or weigh them? On the scales! Check the weight of every single pain. Separately. (She laughs) And who could say… (To the audience) Is pain measured by length? Or by weight? (She faces the audience waiting for an answer) Who can venture an answer? (Pause) You…? (M is silent. W laughs. She talks with sarcasm on the border of rage) And if somebody decided, arbitrarily… Say it happened… To gather all the pains. Together. How could a pain bear another pain. Next to it. It would be completely absurd…! (She bursts into laughter) But it is not. Absurd. Because- pain recognises only itself. It believes that no other pain exists. Solely itself.
(Pause)
Absurd. This is absurd, as well. But in a different way. Not like the former. But this absurdity of pain, saves it from the other absurdity. Of the absurd. Which is a dead end. A precipice. A void. Nothingness.
(Pause)
M: I caught this in the car mirror as he was driving off. I saw myself – and stood there. Looking at myself as he was taking away my effigy along with him.
(Pause)
I looked around. I saw a heap of rubbish. It stank. Of putrid. I climbed up to the top in slow steps. My feet sank in. I used my hands to lift myself up. Until I got to the top. And – lay down. It was almost dawn. Birds were gathering. I raised my hand – so they could see me. So that they did not mistake me for rubbish. Me too. Since I was lying in the rubbish. I had become rubbish. Myself as well.
(Pause)
W: Trucks came. Huge bulldozers with steel teeth. They came to swallow up. Our litter… What a decline for the world… Its bread crumbs to be more than its loaves.
M: I had to leave. I staggered past the workers. They whistled as I passed. I looked straight ahead. So as not to see them. Laughing at me.
W: When you look straight ahead, you can’t see. Only when you look behind, you can see. This is why we humans do not walk with our back. So that we cannot see behind us. Nature protects us. From the unbearable.
M: I walked back home. I stopped at the door empty-handed. Emptier than ever. I didn’t even have – a key.
W: You hadn’t taken it with you… You rang the bell…
M: I rang my bell. Hesitantly at first. And I waited.
W: Nothing…
M: I rang again. Many times.
W: Nothing.
M: Who is it?… I suddenly heard a voice calling.
W: Who is it…? Somebody answered… Who could it be?
M: The building entrance door wide open…
W: The fatal always wide open…
M: I walked up the stairs. Reached my door. It was open…
W: Everything opens up in the end…
M: The flat was empty.
W: Only a sound as if from an animal wailing. From inside you.
M: (Pause) Something inside me. Was wailing. Because of starvation… I started munching paper. There was nothing else… In front of the mirror. I kept munching and looking at myself… To make sure that I existed. It started to snow… It was snowing…! (Scraps of paper start falling on him – like weird snow)

Nova Melancholia Group
Director: Vassilis Noulas

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